I spend the weekend laughing from my belly, and wonder what the phantom is that lurks at the side of my eyes. I feel buoyant and translucent, words aflutter. sniff at the air, curious, shading myself with my heavy hands as I stare into the sun.
Such random forgotten feelings fill my chest that I find myself stunted, without words by the moment. I remember to breathe, and as I do, like dust I’d sweep from a shelf, I find the title.
If you were wondering, it tastes rather like sun ripe berries and wine, blessed.
Watching an old episode of Six Feet Under, (the one show that will make me weepy and introspective regardless of anything else), it strikes me that once, years back, I consciously made a decision to guard my heart, to batten the hatches, and stop hoping. For good. For change. For love or affection or beauty. I stopped considering myself worthy of goodness and joy. I stopped believing it possible in my world, it instead vacant and stuffed with the gray monotony of life without edges.
I just stopped believing. In many things, but least of all, my own capacity and worth.
Then lo, these past few months, like that slow cypher of a butterfly crysalis I’ll someday soon have morphing up my leg, I’ve listened in awe to my own heart sunning itself, allowed myself to be open to possibility and wonder again, to laughter, to the sheer blindness of happiness. The moment where you stop and realize all you can feel is the broad grin across your face.
And then, you feel it like a terrible rumble, this hope, this gorgeous thing of paths and roads and turns that stretch before you into some sort of immortal sunset, and you realize
I have so very much to do.
It’s not more green this year. The flowers, they aren’t more beautiful, my skin isn’t that much softer, my eyes not more golden.
It’s the lightness of my soul that lifts it all up, the dream, the twinkle. The sweetness I recognize from years ago, finally swimming it’s way back to me, gluing back together what was broken so very long ago.
Hope does float.